Originally written by Ian Chainey
Thunder Tribe, a Kentuckian power metal/smooth-prog quintet turning in their long-player debut, has got riffs. Lots of them. They’ve got a similar tonnage of solos, too. Great vocals? Of course, the kind of Coverdale exhales matched with the eff-me, velvety larynx you daydream possessing during a karaoke excursion. And, all three of War Chant‘s piles of goodies rate highly on the rad-o-meter. So, we’re done here right? Not quite. While the trad trinity (the shredder, the fun, and the “holy shit!”) feels like a summer Saturday without any pressing commitments, the total package lacks, well, content. The delivery is there. The container could be the centerfold of ME SIT IN BOX MEOW Monthly. But, the eleven tracks end up rather empty.
Good things first: Opener “More Wicked Than Not” is a burner, giddy-upping out the gate with a gallop. By the chorus, you know these dudes can deal in steel, even sprinkling in dashes of divine Dio-isms. It’s winningly paired with “Part of the Black” which feels fantastic, the kind of heavy metal salve you apply on the commute home. It’s like a pyramid worker getting the chance to sink into a warm bath. Ballad-paced and complete with thick, chunky riffs, “Black” acts as a trampoline for Michael Duncan’s croons. The dude flies, does flips, and sticks the Jorn Lande-ing. Again, to reiterate, it makes the right impression. The rest just falls apart under the slide-shattering microscope.
War Chant‘s thrills are kinda like a Youtube highlight reel: Inhuman feats start to become commonplace when removed from the sandwiching slices of comparative normalcy. The extra ordinary context needs to be present to properly elevate the awesome, otherwise we’re talking shades of grey and not the type making your mom blush. Look, you can pack on more muscle than Doug Martin with a menu tailored by old East German nutritionists, but it doesn’t mean much without a skeleton. That’s a tough concept to swallow for those of us who no longer have time for average. Continually cutting to the chase should be a boon. It’s not, though, mainly because nothing feels earned. Good songwriting is able to pay that debt while still selling a smile. Thunder Tribe has the right idea with the right riffs, they’re just bankrupt in the build-up department. Instead of flow, the album rolls through POWAH PROG AORrrrrrr like a pirate katamari, picking up what it likes without pouring out the sweat to achieve those sections organically. War Chant is a lot of square pegs duct-taped into the shape of solid jams.
Yet, to rewind and to charmingly expresses a sentiment for the third instance, it feels good. When approaching this type of tuneage, isn’t that all that matters? Trad, like band names, stand-up jokes, or page-long script soliloquies, is an inherently foolish venture, held together by taffy and then baptized by fire. Without swooping in and saving the day with your own skewed perception, it’s usually amounts to nothing but goo. However, if Ronnie Duncan/Rick Sargent’s air-raid siren licks and stenographer-nimble fingers do the trick, the crotchety gripe of the proceeding paragraphs is rendered moot. Heavy metal doesn’t necessarily have to be Big Blue vs. Kasparov to be successful. No, it only needs to feel good. Thunder Tribe is good for the heart, not so much for the head. Maybe that will come in time. Especially if they cool it on the momentum-crushing, Queensrÿche-styled blue-balling.
